The girl and the bookstore

It was the most harmless of hobbies. Her co-workers wondered why they never saw her in the break room at lunchtime. Why she never lined up behind the microwave, pyrex-ware in hand like everyone else. It was the books, you see. Books are as bad as nicotine or crack. Once hooked, you, the user – are done for life. No amount of therapy or rehab with 200+ channels on the box, or the smörgåsbord of cat viddys on the interwebs can bring you back. So she practiced wingardium leviosas' when she thought no one was looking. She would close her eyes and fly across the Channel with Temeraire. Sometimes with a defiantly shameful half-smile, she would browse the shirtless-teen-vampire section. 'Not to worry' she would tell herself – 'there is time enough to atone for such things with Lawrence Durrell'. And so things were. Until that one day when she found an old bookstore a short walk from campus. The Upper Midwest tests your mettle in winter – but for those strong of spirit who make it through six months of grey skies (usually with the help of books) – Spring throws one heck of a party. Tank tops were back, the convertibles had been released from hibernation. The undergrads were gone and the quad was full of graduate students whose advisors were away on conferences.

Who spends their lunch hour at a bookstore, of all places – in such glorious weather? Well, she did. Maybe she liked the solitude. For someone who loved to share by writing, she was also something of a loner. Well, a mass of contradictions, really – but wrapped up in a very well read personality. So, the bookstore. A bright, shiny chain store this was not. Well, who are we kidding, those giant chain stores have all gone belly up and it is only people's love of esoterica that keeps these hole-in-the-wall places open. That, and the cookies they have at the desk. The storekeeper was straight out of Dickens – add a hunchback and the picture would be complete. Had it not been for the electric lighting, she would have suspected that the bookstore was carefully parked in the late 19th century. As it was, the owner never took plastic. Sure, he had a sound explanation about small businesses and credit card transaction fees. But still – all cash?

The bell jangled as she pushed her way in. Shaw, the resident German Shepherd raised his muzzle, recognized her and went back to his meditations. 'Back here miss, got a new consignment to unpack'. It was strange and slightly creepy how the keeper always seemed to know when she walked in. The storefront was tiny. It was only when you walk in that the true size of the place became apparent. Endless, labyrinthine, Time Lord technology at work, perhaps. Or maybe Pratchett was right and a critical mass of books does distort Einsteinian spacetime into the hyper exotic L-space that only orangutans with doctoral degrees can navigate. Whatever – she walked right in, carefully avoiding Shaw's chew toys and made her way to her favourite section – '19th century Fantastika' (the nerdy typographer inside her swooned every time she saw that sign.)

There was a book about dragons that she had spied her last visit over. Thankfully it was still here. She opened it up. The frontispiece was a beautiful engraved plate of a huge dragon with scales dark blue and speckled like the evening sky. The beast towered over the man who stood alongside. The man was dressed in a greatcoat and wore wonderful steampunky aviator goggles. The chapter was titled - ' On the rearing of Noble Dragons'. Oh joy. Thunder rumbled outside. Our girl did not notice. This book was quite something else. The writing was utterly dry – like a lab manual, in fact. But what really threw her was the complete sincerity with which the book spoke. She turned back to the frontispiece. The dragon's eyes shone with a brightness that no plate should have been able to capture – certainly not one one from a book printed in (quick flipback) – 1805. In the Prague, of all places. Shaw announced himself by licking at her elbow. 'Alright then, you moocher – lets go get you a cookie' – she said. Shaw obviously understood human speech, for he happily turned around. She followed his wagging tail through what seemed like more than the normal quota of turns and corners before she made it to the desk. Which was unattended. She raised the huge glass bell and grabbed a cookie for Shaw and one for herself. The dog sat expectantly waiting for her. She looked around again. Nobody. Then she noticed the aviator glasses on the desk. Old, very old. With frayed leather straps and slightly chipped dark lenses.

The giant in the field

Last September, I was in Chicagoland and the neighbourhood with the missus. We made a trip to the Nathan Manilow Sculpture Park which is a collection of strange and beautiful esoterica. A few examples are below. The Park is part of the Governor's State Uni, a small 4 year school located a short drive south of Chicago. Most of the works are outdoor pieces which both confuse and impress.  worthwhile expedition, even if it was in the sweltering heat. We called ahead to ask for directions and the Park Director himself came out to meet us. He brought a couple of chilled water bottles for what was obviously a lunatic photographer and his long suffering wife.

Spotted in town - a prewar Cadillac

I was getting an early morning oil change done on Mrs. Darcy (my old Saab). A coffee seemed apt while waiting. I toddled along across the street to a coffee and donuts joint. This polished specimen was waiting out front. Looks like a prewar(that would be pre WWII) Cadillac series 61 to me. Classic flowing lines with a hint of bulbous muscle hiding a potent (for that time) 90-degree V8 engine.

6 word science fiction stories

The burger tasted suspiciously like ... meat!
The solar wind carried screams afar.
The smell of turpentine was everywhere.
He said. She said. It recorded.
She screamed its name in ecstasy.
Kirk buttoned up his red shirt.
Wolf Creek was Angel Ground Zero.
At midnight, all the cats attacked.
The waves lapped at Lady Liberty's torch.
Buzz saw Neil shaking hands. Alone.
"Who is this 'God'?", asked Zilla.
His dreams nourished the Old Ones.
The aliens watched in quiet disgust.
Of course, Soylent Green is people!
Signpost- "Be patient. Universe being rendered"
The cannibals preferred well done Kardashians.
"Time Traveler Orientation Center at Thermopyle"
Doctor handed the Dalek a beer.
Every night, Maverick heard Goose snickering.
Leaked video: "Snow White tossing midgets."
"Arenagate: Retired superheroes recruited as gladiators!"
The Civil War was anything but.



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Museum hopping in Austin

So we wanted to go to the Blanton Museum of Art. A long-ish while ago, mah sister drilled into me  the semi obsessive museum hopping while visiting new metro areas. Haven't really had any regrets about that. I would say that the Washington DC experience is somewhat special (in the continental US, that is). Europe and India is a whole other thing.

However, the Blanton was inconveniently closed - and we had an hour to kill. It was also sweltering outside, so we sought refuge in the Bullock Texas State History Museum. As we simply did not have the time(or energy) to explore the exhibits, I ended up trying to get a few shots of the beautiful mural on the lobby floor.

A pot of biriyani

The interesting thing about Desi restaurants in the US is that they always tend to play the same music. 'Desi' is Hindi (or Bengali, or several other Sanskrit derived languages) for 'country'. So calling a person Desi is like referring to him as a countryman. Your countryman. And country means India. So you guys (which is everyone else) can't use it. Unless you use it to refer to India, or Indians or Indian things. Like food.

So passing lightly over the gawdawful music that they play ( there is prolly one playlist that all of these joints have to use or else)... the food. This particular place claims to be of Andhra origin. That means they come from a state in India called Andhra Pradesh, formerly known as the Hyderabad Princely State (British Indian times). Of course, given the fact that Andhra has divided like the proverbial amoeba and created a new state called Telengana, things could be complicated, but I digress.

Hyderabadi cuisine is very, very good. There are two classic and one modern schools of Biriyani. The northern Lucknowi tradition, which finds its inspiration from the Mughals is the oldest. The southern Hyderabadi tradition does its own things with spices onlu available in the Deccan. Also very good. And then there is the Calcutta way of doing things. This draws from the Nawabs of Bengal (hence the strong affinity for mutton) and combines with it the spices of this region.

But Biriyani Pot is all about the Hyderabadi. See, here is a pointer: if the joint is populated by hordes of bewhiskered natives (I mean people from Andhra, highly adept at coding Java, somewhat swarthy of complexion, you know, your friendly neighbour from across the street with the polite family) - then yes, it is doing something right. And indeed, Biriyani pot is doing something right. The lunch thali (which means a plate with a bit of everything) is a lot of decent food at a reasonable price. And the place will fill up very quick - being relatively close to the USAA campus. You will get a small pot of biriyani with your thali. This is usually quite good. If you haven't had goat biriyani before, give it a try. Goat meat is not as succulent as lamb - but cook it long enough and with the right spices - you will enjoy it.

But dinner - from the menu. Well, that is a different discussion. I have tried a Indo-Chinese fried rice. This is sort of a subcontinental take on a Chinese classic. Not good. Calcutta does it infinitely better. And then, I tried a kabab. Uninspiring. So there you have it. Biriyani Pot. Best visited during lunch. And order the thali.

PS- they do recognize that Indians generally hate being served ice water at meals. So you get room temperature water. My white friends were served iced water, though - without being asked. So, we have a leetil bit of intelligent profiling going on.